Page 88 of Crowned

But that’s not why this is happening.

“Darling, why are you acting so strangely? Please come out of the water,” Mother calls, her voice dripping with sweetness. She’s beautiful, my mother. Long, dark hair, luminous skin and eyes, a proud, full mouth. Men have been falling over themselves to try and wed her, but she’s not interested in men. To marry, at least. She’s taken plenty to her bed. I’ve seen them in the kitchen or leaving by the back door, and they’re getting younger and younger.

I stay where I am and don’t take my eyes off Pyotr. Our enormous mansion rises behind us, all the windows dark and blank.

“Does she call you Grigor when you fuck her?” I seethe at Pyotr. Grigor was our father’s name. “Was Father already dead when you started screwing our mother, or could you not even wait until he was cold?”

“How dare you!” Mother screeches.

She has enough shame to deny it, but what is the point? I turn on her, my chest lifting and falling sharply with disgust and anger. “Mother, Isawyou.”

And she knows I saw them. Our eyes locked when Pyotr was on top of her. She didn’t even have the sense to screw her son under the sheets so she could pass off their sick relationship as “just cuddling.”

I drag my eyes away from my mother, and I’ll feel no sorrow if I never lay eyes on her again. She has treated me cruelly for as long as I can remember, and for no reason that I can fathom. She was cruel to Pyotr, too, but it always seemed as if he strangely enjoyed it.

I look only at Pyotr, my brother whom I have always loved and who has loved me. Deep down he must know he’s making a terrible mistake. He’s being coerced by an older and far more devious woman, and it’s not his fault. “If you tell me she’s forcing you, I’ll believe you. Do you hear me, Pyotr? No question about it. I’m on your side.”

Pyotr’s handsome face, so like our father’s, goes blank for a moment. I take a step forward.

“Pyotr, if this bitch got her claws into you, then I can help you get them out again. I will tear them out of your flesh.”

He reaches out for me across the water. Our fingers touch.

And then he seizes my wrist, his eyes lighting up. “You always were too trusting, you little idiot.”

Pyotr sweeps my knees out from beneath me, and I fall into the water with a splash. My back hits the rocks at the bottom of the lake and then Pyotr is on top of me, his knee on my chest and his hands around my throat, holding me under. I can see his face through the churning water and it’s savage. Unrecognizable. Over his shoulder, Mother examines her nails, keeping herself out of the way of any splashes.

My vision goes spotty. My lungs start to burn. I want to take a breath, but I’ll suck in water if I do. I need to fill my lungs. Though it’s certain death, I have to fill my lungs. I can’t override what my body craves, and it’s terrifying.

With the last of my strength, I shove Pyotr’s knee off my chest, and while he’s off-balance, I throw him off and burst to the surface of the lake, flailing for air. I can’t see through the water in my eyes, but Mother is shouting at Pyotr to grab me, so I blunder off to my left, away from them and away from the house. There are trees with low branches lining the water, and I scramble through them.

And then I run.

I run because my life depends on it, my lungs on fire now and my legs cramping from cold and effort. I don’t look around. I don’t check over my shoulder. I fix my eyes to the horizon where the moon is rising, and I book it out of there.

I outrun my fear.

I outrun my pain.

Pyotr and Mother can do whatever sick things they want with each other. As far as I’m concerned, my family is dead.

I’ll make my own fucking family.

* * *

There aren’tmany people I trust as I grow older. I’ve always been confident in my own cleverness, and I live to lead. I build up my own empire from scratch, and I’m not afraid to get my hands dirty. The only person I truly trust is myself.

When I meet Kirill, I’m impressed by his skills, but he’s so young, so eager, that I don’t think much about him. He’ll probably die before his child makes it to school age.

Then I hear a strange tale about Kirill. His child was the one to die, killed in terrible circumstances by its own grandparents. Then the mother took her own life and Kirill was the one to find the body. He burned the mansion down in revenge, though the Lugovskayas escaped. A pity, that.

You can get people out of prison in Russia if you know the right people and have enough influence or money. I’ve never tried before, but as I think about the Lugovskayas, anger burns in my chest in a way it hasn’t since my own family betrayed me.

So, I pull some strings, and Kirill emerges from prison to stand by my side, darker than he once was. Hardened, bloodthirsty, and as sharp as a honed blade. He has no one and nothing to care about, just as I have no one and nothing. Only money. Only power. His idea of power is the game he plays in the dark. He’s more than happy to play while working alongside me. We’re an excellent team, him and I.

One day we hear of a tall, blond man covered in prison tattoos asking around after Kirill. A friend, or an assassin? He finds us in our favorite bar in the city, drinking vodka in the early hours of the morning.

As soon as Kirill’s eyes land on the man, he gets to his feet, a rare smile breaking over his face.

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